His nerves were at the breaking point and he spoke sharply.

"Why are you not in bed?" he asked.

"While--mommy-Lyn is--in--there?" gasped the girl, turning reproachful eyes up to him. "How--could I?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Always; always!"

"Ann, you must go to your room at once! Come, I will go with you." She rose and took his hand. There was fear in her eyes.

"Is--is mommy-Lyn--" she faltered, and Truedale understood.

"Good G.o.d!--no!" he replied; "not that!"

"I was to--to stay close to you." Ann was trembling as she walked beside him. "She gave you--to me! She gave you to me--to keep for her!"

Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann. Confusedly he grasped the meaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda--that held them all to the strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for a life.

"Little Ann," was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the child solemnly.

When morning dawned, Lynda came back--bringing her little son with her.

G.o.d had spoken!

Truedale, sitting beside her, one hand upon the downy head that had nearly cost so much, saw the mother-lips move.

"You--want--the baby?" he asked.

"I--I want little Ann." Then the white lids fell, shutting away the weak tears.

"Lyn, the darling has been waiting outside your door all night--I imagine she is there now."

"Yes, I know. I want her."

"Are you able--just now, dear?"

"I--must have little Ann."

So Ann came. She was white--very much awed; but she smiled. Lynda did not open her eyes at once; she was trying to get back some of the old self-control that had been so mercilessly shattered during the hours of her struggle, but presently she looked up.

"You--kept your word, Ann," she said. Then: "You--you made a place for my baby. Little Ann--kiss your--brother."

They named the baby for William Truedale and they called him Billy, in deference to his pretty baby ways.

"He must be Uncle William's representative," said Lynda, "as Bobbie is the representative of Betty's little dead boy."

"I often think of--the money, Lyn." Truedale spoke slowly and seriously.

"How I hated it; how I tried to get rid of it! But when it is used rightly it seems to secure dignity for itself. I've learned to respect it, and I want our boy to respect it also. I want to put it on a firm foundation and make it part of Billy's equipment--a big trust for which he must be trained."

"I think I would like his training to precede his knowledge of the money as far as possible," Lynda replied. "I'd like him to put up a bit of a fight--as his father did before him."

"As his father did _not_!" Truedale's eyes grew gloomy. "I'm afraid, Lyn, I'm constructed on the modelling plan--added to, built up. Some fellows are chiselled out. I wonder--about little Billy."

"Somehow"--Lynda gave a little contented smile--"I am not afraid for Billy. But I would not take the glory of conflict from him--no! not for all Uncle William's money! He must do his part in the world and find his place--not the place others may choose for him."

"You're going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren't you, Lyn?" Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious.

"I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Ann had to find."

"I see--I see! That's where a mother comes in strong, my dear."

"Oh! Con, it's where she comes in with fear and trembling--but with an awful comprehension."

This "comprehension" of the responsibilities of maternity worked forward and backward with Lynda much to Truedale's secret amus.e.m.e.nt. Confident of her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann. While Billy, red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lynda retraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in her treatment of Ann.

"Ann," she said one day, "you must go to school."

"Why?" Ann naturally asked. She was a conscientious little student and extremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her.

"You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have--have children in your life. You'll be queer."

"I've got Bobbie, and now Billy."

"Ann, do not argue. When Billy is old enough to go to school he is going, without a word! I've been too weak with you, Ann--you'll understand by and by."

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann's part to insist further; she was rather awed by this att.i.tude. So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Ann went to school. At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much as she might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was good for her. Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted and awakened her. From the ma.s.s of things she ought to know, she clutched at things she wanted to know. From the girls who shared her school hours, she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others, for her, did not exist.

"She's so intense," sighed Lynda; "she's just courting suffering. She lavishes everything on them she loves and grieves like one without hope when things go against her."

"She's the most dramatic little imp." Truedale laughed reminiscently as he spoke--he had seen Ann in two or three school performances. "I shouldn't wonder if she had genius."

Betty looked serious when she heard this. "I hope not!" was all she said, and from then on she watched Ann with brooding eyes; she urged Lynda to keep her much out of doors in the companionship of Bobbie and Billy who were normal to a relieving extent. Ann played and enjoyed the babies--she adored Billy and permitted him to rule over her with no light hand--but when she could, she read poetry and talked of strange, imaginative things with the few girls in whose presence she became rapt and reverent.

Brace was the only one who took Ann as a joke.

"She's working out her fool ideas, young," he comforted; "let her alone.

A boy would go behind some barn and smoke and revel in the idea that he was a devil of a fellow. Annie"--he, alone, called her that--"Annie is smoking her tobacco behind her little barns. She'll get good and sick of it. Let her learn her lesson."

"That's right," Betty admitted, "girls ought to learn, just as boys do--but if I ever find _Bobbie_ smoking--"

"What will you do to him, Betty?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I _do_ know I'd insist upon his coming from behind barns."

And that led them all to consider Ann from the barn standpoint. If she wanted the tragic and sombre she should have it--in the sunlight and surrounded with love. So she no longer was obliged to depend on the queer little girls who fluttered like blind bats in the crude of their adolescent years. Lynda, Betty, Truedale, and Brace read bloodcurdling horrors to her and took her to plays--the best. And they wedged in a deal of wholesome, commonplace fun that presently awoke a response and developed a sense of humour that gave them all a belief that the worst was past.

"She has forgotten everything that lies back of her sickness," Lynda once said to Betty; "it's strange, but she appears to have begun from that."

Then Betty made a remark that Lynda recalled afterward: